User blog comment:Brigadier Barty/Tavern of the Rusted Claw/@comment-3135907-20160606042751/@comment-3135907-20170118051313

The fog had opened, the shrouds of mist hanging back to make way for a single, small white sail.

Aboard the craft it propelled, an assortment of vermin in a dread array of dark, subdued colors, most of them in the red spectrum, and armed to the teeth, tramped about or sat at the wales as the boat shot through the debris field.

Swisher breathed one word, accompanied by a soft curse.

"Carrioncrows."